


Graveworm

by nursehelena



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Genitalia Injury, Medical, STD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:23:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nursehelena/pseuds/nursehelena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week in the life at Mordhaus, as told by their doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graveworm

**Author's Note:**

> This was far too fun to write. I’ve always headcanoned their doctor’s name as Graveworm, so yeah. If medical stuff isn’t your forte/is triggering, you should probably avoid this.

**Monday**

“Dr. Graveworm, your nine o'clock is here.”

“Send him in. Whatever,” the man sighed after taking his finger off the Talk button. The weekend went by too quickly. Sometimes he debated against taking Saturday and Sunday off, for all the backlog it created come Monday morning. His nine o'clock was an appointment, although the patient himself would mark a horrendous start for the week.

Boots clomped down the hall, then the examination room's door handle smashed into the familiar dent on the wall behind. “Let'sch get thisch over with.”

“Take a seat.” For a reminder, Graveworm peered over the bassist's file. Thanks to their prolific nature, he tended to keep a straighter mind about the band over the faceless klokateers that streamed through here on a constant basis. With a nod to himself, he turned back to the other man. “How're you feeling?”

“Like schit. Gimme more pain killersch.”

“The prescription I gave you should've sufficed.”

“Well it didn't! Either give me the pillsch, or I'll juscht aschk Picklesch.”

Already, a headache probed at Graveworm's temples. “Whatever. Take off your shorts.”

“Exsch-exschcuse me?” Murderface balked. “I know how you doctorsch operate. I'm not taking off my clothesch. Lascht time I did, I got moleschted.”

“How am I going to check your injury if you don't? If it still hurts, that may mean it's infected. You don't want to _lose_ them, do you?”

Murderface's mouth falling open exposed the gap between his front teeth. Frowning and grumbling, he worked his shorts and underwear around his boots. “You put _one finger_ where it ischn't schupposched to be, and I'll report you to Offdenschen.”

“Whatever.” Graveworm pulled a pair of gloves on. His salary doubled in exchange for his return, and while he hated his job (despite his prodigious aptitude at medical science), how could he turn down eight figures? The second best practitioner in the world that briefly took his spot found himself buried at the bottom of the list, after unprofessional measures left him with a face full of semen. And here Graveworm thought he'd safely retired at the respectable age of forty-seven.

Instead, he maintained a straight face as he moved a gnarled and disfigured penis to inspect the stitch work along the scrotum beneath. His own job, from a couple weeks ago. The story wasn't easy to acquire; Murderface and Toki came rushing in, the former clutching his blood-soaked crotch and the latter attempting to explain in mingled Norwegian and pidgin English. Something to do with a trampoline. Graveworm's best guess was they'd forgotten to put down the safety mat, Murderface landed on his backside too close to the edge, and one of the springs caught the bassist's sac before Toki launched him back into the air with a double-bounce.

“There's slight discolouration and swelling. Are you back to masturbating?”

“Am I—? I don't think that'sch any of your buschinessch.” Murderface's frown deepened when Graveworm didn't retract the question. “Maybe. What'm I _schupposched_ to do, not touch myschelf?”

“That sort of stress is irritating the area. Unless you want the wound to reopen—”

“Oh god, juscht schtop. Fine. I'll figure schomething out. Can I put my schortsch back on, yet?”

“Yes, go ahead.” Graveworm's gloves hit the garbage as he rolled back over to his desk. His pen hadn't even touched his prescription pad before the bassist gingerly attempted to scramble away. “Hold on, don't you want your pills?”

* * *

**Tuesday**

“. . .I'll just refer you to the proctologist then, 741—”

Graveworm started as the examination room's door slammed open. Bowing his head, Skwisgaar stepped in with his arms crossed and lips pushed out. The hooded figure seated before the doctor immediately leapt up and pardoned himself from the room.

One agreement upon Graveworm's return to Mordhaus was that the band members couldn't barge in like this. They were free to wait until a spot opened up, whether by cancellation or a klokateer sacrificing their place, but that went ignored when Dethklok learned their old doctor returned. Graveworm hated himself every time it happened for not speaking up against it. Perhaps then, it would've been properly enforced. Whatever.

“What can I do for you, Skwisgaar?”

“Ja, I gots de clap again.” The Swede leveraged himself up onto the table. Having learned the symptoms for each STI through experience, Skwisgaar didn't need a proper test administered. He came as soon as urinating burned and the familiar discharge appeared in his underwear. “Gives to me dose pills.”

Seriously? The man hadn't even come back for his follow-up from the _previous_ bout of it, yet. “You have a habit of forgetting to take your medication, so how about I just give you the shot instead?”

Skwisgaar gave him a leery look. “De shot? Dat ams a needle, amn't it?”

“About this big.” Graveworm's temporary replacement damaged the boys' trust in physicians beyond what their current doctor believed possible. And yet, he could empathize with tormenting their patients. “Think you could handle that?”

Skwisgaar eyed the syringe laid out on Graveworm's desk. “Maybes I t'ink about it.

“No.” He stopped in the doorway on his way out. “Fucks it, I's just gonna gets it over wit'. Sticks me wit' it, den.”

Despite his momentary display of courage, the Swede trembled as Graveworm took an alcohol wipe to the fleshiest part of his backside. “This'll be over before you know it.”

“Don'ts tell me when you's going to— _ooowowowow_ , dat fucking _stungs!_ ”

“I didn't even do it yet.”

Skwisgaar's thrashing ripped the crinkly paper. Upon that realization, the blond forgot his pride completely, buried his face in his arms, and moaned like a dying cow.

Graveworm drew Recephin-VI3 into the needle. “You need to stay still. If you tense up or move about, _that's_ what's going to make it hurt.”

“Ams easy for _you_ to say! You amn'ts de one gettings de fucking shot!”

Graveworm didn't hold Dethklok's health in his hands just because he graduated top of the class from the country's most prestigious medical school. His extensive practice in every type of surgery left him with talent for speed and precision. Before Skwisgaar's voice could hitch at the tail end of a stilted sob, Graveworm wiped a spot of blood away. A small bandage followed, then the doctor tended to disposing of the spent syringe. “You can do your pants back up. Whatever.”

“It ams over?” Skwisgaar pushed himself upright, hastily wiping at his cheeks while the doctor had his back turned. “Cans I go now?”

“Not quite. You and I are going to have a little chat.”

“Abouts what?”

“You know very well, about what.” Seated, Graveworm rested his ankle on the knee opposite. “You won't be free of the infection for seven days, so you're going to need to hold off on sex until then. If you can't, you need to use condoms.”

“ _Pff_ , condoms!” Skwisgaar scoffed. “I _hates_ dose t'ings.”

“I know, but if you'd been using a condom when you had sex with whoever gave you gonorrhoea, you wouldn't be sitting here right now. You should consider your partners, as well. Do you think they _like_ contracting that from you?” A sulk from the blond denoted consideration. “Besides, we try to keep up with the various strains, but there's going to come a point when I can't give you medication strong enough anymore, Skwisgaar. You are literally a breeding ground for super bacteria.”

“Oogh.” The Swede's shoulders further slumped. “Maybes I tries.”

“There's a bin of free condoms on the way out. Fill your pockets, if you please. Whatever.”

With that, the man slid off the examination table. Graveworm liked to believe he'd gotten through to him, but chances were he'd treat Skwisgaar for the same problem again within a month.

* * *

**Wednesday**

Hump day's office hours went normally for Graveworm, thank God. He left a little after five, ordered in some Thai food, and just about sat down to watch the news when his work phone received a text message.

Goddamn it.

All he gathered was his requirement at the emergency room. Nathan Explosion arrived there grimacing and clutching himself with sweat pouring down his face, and wouldn't let anyone near him. Twenty minutes later, Graveworm pulled the curtain aside to reveal the pained, humungous man within. “What's the problem?”

“It hurts.”

“Where?”

Between the legs seemed to be the theme of the week. Carefully as he could, with the odd grunt and cringe, Nathan removed his pants. Graveworm couldn't see anything out of the ordinary until Dethklok's frontman leaned back and spared his genitalia of his shadow. Sighing, the doctor pulled on some gloves and inspected the reddened, dry penis. “This is a first degree burn. What the hell did you do?”

A mumbled response forced Graveworm to request Nathan speak up. “I stuck it in a burrito.”

Graveworm sacrificed his evening for _this?_ If Nathan was stupid enough to do it, then he deserved the resultant pain. “Did you not realize it was hot?”

“I didn't think the cheese would stick to me, all right?” Nathan raised his voice. “What the fuck do I do? I'm not going to lose it, am I? Might as well take me out back and shoot me, if I am.”

“Don't be so dramatic. Only a third degree burn would result in the removal of necrotic tissue. Whatever.” Graveworm crossed his arms. “Do you have any aloe vera on hand?”

“What's that?”

“Never mind, I'll write it down and you can get a klokateer to fetch some for you. Just rub it on the affected area to promote healing, and eventually the pain will go away.”

“What if I get a lady to do it for me? Like a really nice looking one?”

“Whatever you want, but I would advise that's as much as you let her do. It's not going to feel much better for about a week, and even if it _didn't_ hurt, you'd accelerate the peeling if you place any stress on your penis.”

“God, that sounds horrible. Like a snake shedding its skin?”

“Uh. . .sure. Whatever.”

Nathan reached for his jeans. “Sucks, but I guess I can handle this. What's that stuff called again?”

“Aloe vera.” Graveworm dashed it down on a nearby piece of paper and handed it over. “Word of advice: keep yourself away from hot things in future, especially food. If the urge visits you, stick to masturbation or groupies. Don't do anything too extreme, otherwise these sorts of things happen.”

“I didn't exactly plan this, but I'll give it a shot anyway.” Nathan tugged on the crotch of his jeans as he stood, in attempt to eliminate chafe. “I'll come see you if it's not getting any better.”

“Give it until Monday. If you've noticed no change, then stop in. Otherwise, it's probably healing at a normal rate.” If Graveworm didn't put his foot down about that, he'd see the frontman multiple times everyday. It wasn't his job to squash fears that his penis might fall off. He'd leave that for Twinkletits.

* * *

**Thursday**

Toki was always Graveworm's favourite, of the five boys. He never barged in sans appointment, didn't mind sitting in the waiting room while the doctor finished up with his current patient, and was always polite as the visit went underway. His track record for following medical advice left the others in the dust.

“Hellos, Dr. Graveworm,” the Norwegian cheerfully greeted him. “Hows are you today?”

“I'm fine, and how about yourself?”

“Okays, but I gots this pain that's making it hard to plays my guitar.” Disregarding initial belief that Toki came about his diabetes, Graveworm directed attention at the young man's right elbow. “I wouldn'ts has bugs you, but Skwisgaar say it makes my playing evens more dildos, so I guess I betters do something about it, huh?”

Graveworm rolled over to the chair Toki plopped down in. “How long has it been bothering you?”

“A couples week, I think. I didn'ts really pay attention to it, if I's honest. It just kinds of hurt at night and get stiff in the mornings. Now it hurts whenever I tries to do anything with this arm, alls the way down to my hand.”

“Hm. Do you use this arm a lot, throughout the day?”

“Ja, is my arm! I uses my arms all the time.”

“Have you been petting a lot of rabbits, lately?” Toki came to see him before regarding problems resultant of excessive masturbation. The very first visit, when Graveworm suspected he spoke to an overgrown child, they'd designated petting rabbits as a euphemism for the shame-ridden Norwegian. Although Toki didn't blush or stare silently at his feet now, he still averted his gaze.

“A bits more than usual, I guess. . .”

“This is a pretty easy fix, Toki. You need to stop doing that so much. Since your arm's hurting all the time, I'll give you something to wear on it. Try not to move it as much as you can, but if you really need to for practicing your guitar, stretch it out for about ten minutes beforehand to avoid stress.”

“And. . .whats about petting the rabbits?”

“You should take a little break from that. Why don't you let someone else do it?”

“I don'ts know. I's not very lucky with it.” Toki toed the floor. “Maybes I try.”

Graveworm rifled through his desk to find an elbow brace. “You could take some Advil too, to help with the inflammation. Take a hot bath or use a heating pad, things like that. It should clear up on its own, if you're careful.”

Toki smiled as Graveworm secured his elbow. “Okays, Toki will takes all of what you say into considerations. Thanks you Dr. Graveworms, bye!”

* * *

**Friday**

Not having to perform any major surgeries on the band made for a relatively mild work week. It wasn't over yet of course, as Graveworm took his lunch, so when he returned at one o'clock it came as no surprise that the main administrator halted him.

“You're needed over at the ER. Pickles is there.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “Debbie says he got something stuck up his you-know-what.”

“Reschedule my afternoon appointments, then. Whatever.” Great. At least this sort of thing didn't happen often. Graveworm performed an extraction on Skwisgaar a couple times, so at least the drummer sitting stiffly on the same bed as Nathan did a couple days ago was a change of pace. As Graveworm pulled the curtain shut and weeded out background noise from the nurse's station, a buzzing became audible. “Is it still on?”

“Oh, I guess I shoulda terned it off before I stuck it in there, reet?” Pickles crankily replied. “Can't you jest gimme some ex-lax, or somethin'?”

“I'm afraid it's not that easy. It'll require you go under so that I can pull it out. If left, it'll only block you.”

“But everything _else_ comes out on its own!”

“Whatever. Are you willing to take the chance?”

Deciding against it, Pickles followed him to the X-ray lab. The drummer managed a crooked grin as they looked up at the results, where something about five inches long and one inch in girth situated in his lower colon. “Hope ya got somethin' strong enough to knock me out. Heh.”

“Didn't you have something with a flanged base handy?”

“Yeeuh, but it didn' vibrate.”

Weekend more than likely delayed, Graveworm led Pickles to the private operating room. The hardest part, as predicted, was on the anesthesiologist. A couple hours later, the doctor returned to his office, updated the drummer's file, then shut out the lights. There. Another week done.

He headed into Mordhaus proper, rather than for his own suite. Normally he didn't bother Charles directly—simply kept him up-to-date on his boys' latest health fiascos via e-mail—but pulling a dildo out of someone's dilated anus was the last he could handle for the day. Surprisingly, he didn't interrupt a phone call. Maybe the band's manager too tied up for the week.

“Evening, Charles.”

“Take a seat.” Charles read his stress correctly; he set a bottle and box on his desk. “Cigar, brandy?”

“Thank you.” As a physician, Graveworm would normally frown upon tobacco and liquor. However, he also encouraged his patients to lower their stress levels.

“I take it the boys kept you busy this week?”

Foregoing that, Graveworm exhaled a lungful of smoke toward the safe Charles kept tucked away in a corner. “I want a raise.”

“Of course. It'll, ah, show on your next paystub.”  


End file.
